


Where Shadows Meet

by fifthaegis



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Original Character Death(s), Other, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Violence, hopefully
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fifthaegis/pseuds/fifthaegis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four months have passed since the incident at Mount Massive Asylum, allowing Waylon Park to recuperate from his physical injuries and begins his search through the ruins of the asylum to find the missing journalist he sent deep into the mountains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nhiwi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhiwi/gifts).



> Hello!  
> This is my first written work on here so please be gentle on me eheh--I'm also learning how to use this site in the first place so forgive me if the tags or anything are a bit off.
> 
> Knowledge on the game is highly recommended to understand the story and characters--but not mandatory--and although this is post-canon, it is still an alternate universe, so keep that in mind!
> 
> Chapters will alternate between our two lovely protagonists. Enjoy!
> 
> Big shout-out to soda_cans for inviting me to Ao3...and making me upload this fic here.

###  **Chapter 1**

The jeep rolled up the rocky dirt path, causing the passengers to sway from left to right, the seat-belts securing them in their seats. Two of the in the front were wearing bullet-proof vests, helmets adorned with night vision goggles, and ammo clips stored in their packs. The one in the passenger seat looked out the window absently, hands holding an assault rifle, finger relaxed on the trigger with the safety on. The driver looked at the rear view mirror. Another soldier was sitting in the seat behind with a man wearing normal civilian clothes and carrying a bag with him. He looked down at the camcorder in his lap, a thumb brushing against the plastic.

"You sure you're okay with this, Park?" The driver asked. The man looked up at the mirror, making brief eye contact before looking back down. He stopped fiddling with his camcorder.  
'No' is what he wants to say, "Yeah," is what comes out of his mouth. The front passenger turned around to face the man. A young woman with a dark complexion and bright eyes. So young. Probably in her twenties.

"Well, we're here in case anything goes wrong. Let's just hope nothing actually goes wrong."

"The fire should have burned down most of the asylum and the rest of the Variants," the soldier next to the man said in a steely voice, pulling back his pistol with an audible click. "But we're authorized to shoot anything on sight. Might be a merciful death if we find any of those maniacs."

"Oh, shut up Rodriguez." She rolled her eyes. "It's going to be a simple mission: find Miles Upshur and get the hell out."

"We don't even know if the guy is alive, Faraday. Reports said that the remains left behind were those of patients and Murkoff employees. They never found that reporter's body before VIRALeaks managed to secure and contain the area as a forbidden zone."

"Either way," the driver spoke up as they pulled up to the broken down gate. "Waylon Park has authorized permission to search the premises and we will search for this Miles Upshur guy. If we don't find him, we leave. Simple as that." He then looked at the three before parking the jeep where Waylon found Miles's own jeep. The one he stole. "Are we clear?"

"Yes sir," the two said in unison before getting out of the vehicle. Waylon closed the door and looked at the asylum. Despite being partially burnt, it still retained its morbid facade and characteristic. He heaved the bag onto his shoulder and walked behind the soldiers as they opened the newly built gate with a keycard. The added security should ease the fear building up inside of him, but now he's wondering if they quarantined the area because of what happened or what is left. The Murkoff Tactical Unit's tanks and armored vehicles were gone, leaves piled up neatly near the base of each tree. It was surreal to Waylon as he walked by in wonder. To think that four months ago the front doors were broken down to reveal hulking vehicles of military standards armed and ready to destroy what the scientists have created. Mere weapons could not kill another weapon of unbelievable results of technology. They could not kill the Walrider. Rodriguez and Faraday were on both sides of the door, ready for breach as their leader, Johnson, turned towards the man.

"Last chance, Park—are you sure about this?"

Waylon looked behind him at the autumn scenery of burning colors.

"Yeah. I'm sure."

Johnson nodded at the two soldiers to open the door. They walked in, flashlights on, guns pointed in front of them.

"Clear." Faraday lowered her weapon, nose crinkling. Rodriguez clicked his tongue as Johnson strode by, Waylon finally seeing the inside of the asylum in four months.  
There was still blood everywhere. The bodies were gone.

"Alright, let's make this quick." Johnson looked at Waylon. "You know the layout of this place better than all of us. Where should we head?"

Waylon looked at the elevator down the reception desk, seeing the actual elevator gone. The fire must have snapped the ropes. Or it could be stuck down in the underground laboratory. He walked towards it, taking out a small flashlight from his bag and looked up and down the dark shaft. The walls were black with soot and dried blood.

"Doesn't look like it's working," Faraday said, pressing the button twice.

"Rope looks burn or cut," Rodriguez looked up. "How many floors does this place have?"

"Four: the ground floor, first, second, and there's an underground lab that is accessed by the elevator. But you need a key."

"You think that Upshur is down in the lab?" Johnson asked.

"Yeah." He wasn't even sure why he thought Miles was down there. For all he knows, the man could be wandering around aimlessly in the asylum like a lost vagrant. Or worse. Waylon walked towards a plaque near the elevator. He pointed at the directory map. "If we're going to go down there through a different route, we'll need an access card that should be on the second floor to open the manual override door at the bottom of the stairs."

"Should be? I don't like the sound of that," Rodriguez commented.

"They moved the key around for security reasons and usually alternate it in a pattern. Only authorized personnel were allowed in the lab back then."

"You mentioned an underground parking garage before in our briefing back at the office. Why not go through there?" Faraday pointed out.

"Because it's sealed off by another access key that I have no whereabouts of. And the same thing; the key alternates around the floors—I don't know its exact location." Waylon headed towards the stairs and pointed his flashlight up.

"The fire probably damaged the wood a bit. Be careful going up," Johnson said. Rodriguez headed up first with Faraday on his six. Johnson canted his head for Waylon to follow them as he stays behind the group, watching his back. The dark wood creaked under their weight, groans echoing throughout the empty asylum. They proceeded slowly, cautious of the planks breaking beneath them. Rodriguez suddenly snapped his rifle up, alerting the rest of the group. His flashlight was focused on something ahead. A tennis ball came bouncing down the stairs.

"For fuck's sake," the man let out a breath. Faraday and Johnson looked at each other as Waylon looked at the ball. He picked it up, tossing it up and weighing it before putting it in his pack. "What? A memento for being in this fucked up place again?"

"James!" Faraday hissed at him. The other soldier glared back.

"What? People know what the fuck happened here after he told the world. And we're walking through this hellhole to look for a guy that might not even be alive!"

"Don't be an ignorant asshole, you piece of shit--"

"Enough, both of you!" Johnson shouted sternly. The rise in volume in the soldier's voice made Waylon jump and reel backward in surprise. He felt his footing about to slip on the step behind him before something bumped into him. Whirling around with his flashlight, Waylon looked to see nothing but the dark stairway going back to the ground floor.

"Park?" Johnson asked. Waylon stared at the brick walls and wooden flooring, expecting for whatever he felt behind him reappear. Or maybe he's already hallucinating and going insane again. Nothing appeared—just the tense atmosphere and dust particles floating from the flashlight lens.

"It's nothing. Just feeling a bit spooked." He let out a wryly smile.

"I'm sure all of us are." Johnson reassured the man. "Let's hurry so we can get out of here." They pressed onward up the stairs, reaching the first floor and greeted by the fluorescent light that showed long dark corridors and a variety of closed and opened doors.

"Should we check this floor just in case?" Faraday suggested.

"Oh yeah, you check this floor and I'll check the second—no, we shouldn't check this fucking floor, Rose." Rodriguez retorted sharply. The female gave him a disgusted look.

"I didn't say split up, you dumbfuck. Park said that the key to the underground garage and laboratory could be on any floor. If anything, it'd make things a lot easier if we happen to find either of them on this floor instead of endlessly looking around." Rodriguez clicked his tongue before looking at Johnson. The man shrugged and stepped into the hallway.

"It'd be dangerous to split up, but progress will be faster." Johnson looked at his watch. "Check this hallway and rendezvous back here in thirty. Then we'll move to the next hallway. Rodriguez, Faraday, you two head north while Park and I check the southern section. And I don't want to hear anymore shit from you two, am I clear?"

"Yes sir," they looked at each other with a grimace. The two soldiers headed down the hallway, peering into an open room before heading in. Johnson shook his head before beckoning Waylon to follow. The too went into an open room, the taller man pointing his flashlight about.

"It doesn't bother you to be here again? Doesn't bring back bad memories?"  
Waylon paused as he opened the desk drawer, staring blankly at the blanch papers and Manila folders stacked neatly on top of each other. Of course it bothers him—how could it not? He worked for a corporation that was corrupt in power and wealth, dehumanizing patients they used as experiments for hosting a super weapon capable of devastating abilities beyond their beliefs. Waylon has asked himself time and time again if it was worth sending the email to the freelancer, getting the innocent man involved with something so hectic and inhumane as Murkoff. It was his fault Miles was trapped here, despite other beliefs that the man is long dead with the rest of the Variants—the patients. And he has to fix it somehow.

"No. Not anymore," he said solemnly, still rummaging through the drawers. No keycards or actual keys.

"Guess the psychiatry sessions pulled off, huh?"  
Waylon went towards the bookshelf. Therapy did very little to him. He knew that his mind was broken beyond repair after what Murkoff has done to him—what the asylum has done to him four months ago. Beating him to submission, forcing him into the Morphogenic Engine, running for his life from patients gone mad. They called him a PTSD sufferer and they said they wanted to help. But Waylon shouted at them. What good will they do when they cannot even understand him? His mind became a mess of turmoil and anxiety, his own wife not being able to support him long enough. Waylon remembered his sons' faces when they saw him absolutely lose it. The things that easily triggers him—hearing the buzz saw at the grocery market, hearing the word 'darling' being uttered in the distance, static from the wrong channels on the television—he was a mess. They were confused, but more so terrified. They were terrified of their own father, the man that would protect and love them. Lisa had tried so hard to help Waylon through words and intimate touches when he had an episode, shaking uncontrollably in the corner of their bedroom with wide eyes muttering a haunted mantra under his breath. She couldn't help him. He was lost to her.

A clattering sound outside the room caught Waylon's attention, making him snap his head up out of his train of thoughts. Johnson held his rifle up as he inched towards the entrance, looking left and right down the corridor. Waylon took a peek and looked to see a figure slipping down the hall around the corner. Johnson shot a warning round, getting the attention of Rodriguez and Faraday as they emerged from the room, looking at their leader in bewilderment.

"You saw that right?" Johnson asked Waylon. The man nodded.

"What the hell was that?" Rodriguez walked up to the two.

"We aren't alone here on this floor," Johnson lowered his weapon. Faraday's eyes widen before taking a shot pass Johnson and Waylon, the bullet hitting the door that just opened. They turned around and rushed towards it as Waylon stood behind. Are there still Variants wandering about in the asylum? What have they been doing for the pass four months? Have they changed? Finally walking towards the door and standing at the entrance, he saw the soldiers standing about in the room.

"Fuck, I shouldn't have fired," Faraday shook her head. "Goddammit."

"Think he jumped out the window," Rodriguez looked at the billowing curtains and bloodstain sweeping up and out the window frame. Waylon blanched.

"Everybody calm down," Johnson said carefully, calmly. "We'll search the perimeter as a group while looking for the keys."

"And if we see those...things?" Faraday asked.

"We shoot the motherfuckers," Rodriguez cocked his gun. Taking cautious steps out the room, they looked both ways, Rodriguez and Faraday back to back with one another. "Clear—"

"Wait...what's that?"

Immediately, Waylon's eyes widened as a black shroud came around the corner, a cold sweat creeping down the nape of his neck and dampening his collar. The familiar and painful sound ringing in his head from four months ago returned, along with the visions from the Engine. A ghastly wail reverberated down the hall, the dark cloud darted towards them.

Waylon ran away from the Walrider as he heard the triggers being pulled.


	2. II

The man was asleep, slumped against in a chair with blue lights from the monitors illuminating his face. His eight fingers were intertwined with one another on his stomach, clean from the blood that seeped out of his wounds. The corner of his mouth twitched and the creases in his brows deepened. Damn Richard Trager to hell. The man who called himself an 'executive' and 'doctor' mutilated Miles' fingers, chopping of his left ring finger and right forefinger. The phantom pain the man had reminded him of the event—and it angered him. Oh, how he enjoyed the sickening sound of Trager's spine crunching as he was stuck between the two floors in the elevator door. To see the 'doctor's' body go limp right in front of him.

The sound of static woke him up. Blinking slowly, Miles took in a deep breath before exhaling, sitting up straighter.

"What?" He mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands. A mass of black mist was in front of him, staring—waiting. To others, it looked like a fog in front of the man; to Miles, he saw the Walrider in its preferred humanoid form. Muscular, tall, hands and feet black as if they were scorched going to a gradient white that comprised its entire being. Why would a killing machine take the form of something it despises?

"What?"

< _intruders. >_

Miles raised a brow. "Intruders? Really?" Walrider nodded. "Murkoff?"

_< unknown.>_

Miles sat up straighter. He knew Murkoff has been trying to take the asylum back for the past few months but other people breaching the perimeter? It was unlikely. Miles saw with his own eyes what VIRALeaks has done to the outside—cleaned it up and set up a fancy gate that can only be accessed by an issued keycard from the organization. And it was blatantly evident enough that the asylum was quarantined—there shouldn't be any reason why anybody should even set foot near the forsaken place.

_< danger.>_

"They have weapons?"

_< confirmed.>_

The man found this information to be troubling. Armed intruders.

_< whistleblower.>_

Miles looked up, mouth parted in disbelief.

_< present.>_

"The Whistleblower is here? I thought he escaped. I—we saw him leave. We HELPED him leave. Why the fuck would he come back?" Miles shouted in confusion. "What? He decided to kill us or something? To mock us?" New questions arose in Miles' head in rapid successions, accumulating so fast and all of them unanswered. He felt something take his hands away from caressing the side of his head, looking up to see Walrider in front of him.

_< pain?>_

Miles closed his eyes. Yes, he was in pain. He lost his job, his career, his fingers, his sanity. He lost his life. The man was trapped under the asylum not because the Walrider is bound to the lab, no, but because Miles is scared. He's terrified of going back to society because he knows he'll never be normal again. He can't go back to the life as a freelance investigative journalist—everything is lost to him. Within the four months of limbo, he came to only one conclusion he grew to hate: the only thing he had left was Walrider. It was strange, truth be told. Before, Walrider only wanted a host to become a sentient being. Nowadays, the nano machine has been showing characteristics and traits of an actual human. It has shown an understanding of emotions that a normal computer couldn't have fathom. It was terrifying. Because it shouldn't be learning.

_< host?>_

God, he hated it when the thing tried to get his attention, as if it was truly concerned. He broke away from the nano cloud.

_< host—>_

"Shut UP. I don't want to hear it." He shouted, nearly screaming. "Just. Just stop." The Walrider made no moves and instead disappeared in front of the man. Miles opened his eyes, brows furrowed as his fingers curled into a fist.

He shouldn't feel sorry for it.

A strange feeling began to bubble within Miles as he sat there. He was starting to feel anxious. The blue screens and lights glared at him in the empty lab, Billy's orb bright red and screaming at his face. He felt everything around him squeezing the air out of him despite there being nothing in the large open space. Shutting his eyes closed, Miles curled in on himself in the computer chair, trying to calm himself. But in the back of his head, he knew the anxiety came from being alone. He's tired of being alone. Four months and the only contact he has had within that time frame was with the Walrider. It was a shocker for Miles to find out that the swarm can actually speak, even if it is only one worded sentences. And only he can hear the swarm. A few Variants have passed by the glass window overseeing the laboratory, sometimes tapping on the pane to catch Miles' attention when he is lost in his thoughts, or whenever he and the Walrider are trying to say something to one another. The Variants would stare for a few minutes before simply leaving without another word. Miles has tried to look for them in the asylum, but to no avail. The Walrider would continuously tell him that it was not safe outside the laboratory. The simplified words reminded Miles of what a toddler would try to speak, testing their voice in the dark, trying to get the right pronunciation and everything sounding like a question. It aggravated the man.

Miles must have fell asleep during his musing as he found himself on the makeshift bed at the top of the ladder overlooking the main engine, his jacket set aside folded neatly by his head. He looked around, vision bleary with sleep, to see a black smudge floating about, making laps around the giant mechanical orb in the middle of the facility. The man stared blankly.

_< good?>_ Miles blinked, trying to decipher the computer's word. He heard a contemplative buzz coming from the Walrider down the ladder, as if it was thinking. It stood next to Billy's bloody orb, canting a head to the side.  _< good...rest?>_

Oh. Now that Miles thought about it, he did feel slightly more rested despite being so worked up yesterday. Was it yesterday or was it a few hours ago? Time became so meaningless after all that has happened. He let his legs dangle from the ledge, resting his arms on the railing and his cheeks on his arms. What was he suppose to say? 'Oh yeah, I'm feeling alright. By the way, you're still a murder machine, you know that? And I fucking hate you.' But he tried to keep his mind closed from the Walrider prying through his thoughts. Apparently not good enough as the swarm seemed agitated by Miles' inner voice, zooming towards him on the balcony, looming over the man as he scrambled backwards, hitting control panels. It grabbed him by his shirt collar, Miles letting out a yelp as he clawed the solid figure's charred arms, legs kicking desperately, trying to find the ground. Images of the Walrider picking him up so easily and flinging him around like a rag doll in the same room made Miles' breath quicken to an erratic pace, chest heaving up and down as the panic rose up in his body. The Walrider's grip tightened, the white fabric pinching together at the pressure point. It saw the host struggling to get out of its grasp, eyes wide and terrified. Why would it be afraid of him? It was protecting him yet he still doubts it as if it is some plague. What Billy felt before began to stir in the very fibers of the swarm's being, old data reemerging and being deciphered easily and quickly.

Rage.

The Walrider dropped the man over the ledge, hearing him scream in fear and agony, writhing in pain as he laid on the concrete floor. New data was being transferred to the swarm from its host. It was familiar, like Billy's own information but more intense and physical.

Pain.

Miles tried to look at the Walrider through the tears welling up in his eyes, groaning. The swarm stared back. It didn't understand its host, the way he said he hated it for being a murderer, taking him as its conduit. Trying to kill him. Miles laid there, trying to breathe, but only to feel a sharp pain on his side, making him whimper and turn on his good side. The buzz of static came closer. Miles' body snapped together, legs curling up, hands covering his head as he trembled.

“Stopstopstopstopstop—” his voice escalated into a hysterical scream as the Walrider stood over him. It canted its head. The words were familiar to the nano cloud. They were the words Billy used to utter before being placed in the machine.

Fear.

The Walrider pried Miles' arms away forcefully, seeing the man's crazed eyes. Green with red linings around the pupils; an effect from the Walrider choosing its host. Exactly like Billy's. Miles let out a choked noise, resisting the pull before the Walrider snapped its head up towards the entrance, immediately dispersing into a cloud of nano machines and disappearing out of the laboratory. Miles tried to breathe, still feeling the pain in his side, and stood up, shaking, only to fall back onto his knees. He resorted to crawling towards a nearby wall, letting the pain dull out by itself as he closed his eyes. He told himself before that no matter what happens, he is free, but he wonders if that is true anymore.

The sound of white noise and machines humming filled the silent void around Miles as he sat there against the wall, feeling numb and suddenly empty. It was nice to get away from the Walrider every now and then, to have his old mind back, not having black claws ripping his thoughts open to be dissected and observed. Then again, what precious memories he had left of his old life was washed away by his experience at Mount Massive Asylum. He was so desperate for another chance for the biggest exploit of his life: showing to the world that Murkoff Corporation was nothing more than an inhumane facade for gruesome experiments on mental patients—and regular people. His first report on them was about some water crisis that he vaguely remembers, seeing his boss's eyes glance over the paper with brows knotted together before looking the man across his desk. It was 'unacceptable content for the public,' his boss said, snuffing out his cigarette in the black and white marble ashtray. All Miles could remember is feeling the initial shock and anger. He worked so hard to uncover so much information on the situation and Murkoff, only to have it completely shut down and destroyed in front of him. Right into the shredder. Then, he quit, right then and there inside the office. Whatever words the man said to the journalist was interrupted by the sharp slam of the wooden door.

Months passed as Miles was gathering intel on Murkoff, locking himself in his apartment and only going out for food and drinks. He spent so much time with his eyes glued to the dimly lit laptop screen, glasses reflecting the words that scrolled up and down, his jacket used as a blanket over his shoulders. Then, an email appeared. At first, the address made Miles roll his eyes and selected it for deletion until he read the subject. A tip—a lead.

_ September 17, 2013  _

_From: 10260110756@mutemail.com_

_To: milesupshur@gmail.com_

_Subject: TIP/Illegal Activity at Murkoff Psychiatric Systems_

 

_You don't know me. Have to make this quick. They might be monitoring._

 

_I did 2 weeks of software consult at MURKOFF Psychiatric Systems' facilities in Mount Massive. All sorts of NDA's I am very much breaking right now but seriously, fuck those guys._

 

_Terrible things happening there. Don't understand it. Don't believe half the things I saw. Doctors talking about dream therapy going too deep, finding something that had been waiting for them in the mountain. People are being hurt and Murkoff is making money._

 

_It needs to be exposed._

It was exactly what Miles was looking for. So, he printed out the email and stuffed it in a blue folder, tucking it under his arm and grabbed his car keys. It was originally a one-way ticket to hell—yet he managed to come back to the land of the living. Well, partially. He lost his fingers and sanity along the way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those that have taken a gander at the fic! ;u;
> 
> Just a side-note, I type these chapters very late in the night/early in the morning on my phone, so I apologize if the standards of the story is not up to the readers' expectation (also typo because auto-correct is a butt). Also I technically have up to six chapters queue'd up so expect those to come up soon.
> 
> Again, thank you for those reading; it is much appreciated!


	3. III

Waylon ran. It was too late to tell the soldiers that they had no chance in even harming the Walrider—Waylon knew that too well. He did not bother looking over his shoulder as the sound of bullets echoed throughout the entire asylum, shouts and screams filling his ears. He ran faster. Sprinting down familiar hallways, Waylon found himself tearing open a nearby steel door that had a broken lock, nearly tripping over himself as he looked at the destroyed radio on the desk. Of course. This was the room where he originally called for help, only to be beaten and nearly choke to death by Jeremy Blaire. His hands curled into shaking fists—shaking because of anger. And fear. Waylon is not one for violence—he didn't even bring a weapon with him to defend himself when both Julian and Johnson highly suggested to do so for his 'Saving Private Upshur' mission—but he found himself slamming his fist onto the table repeatedly.

_Breathe, Waylon, breathe._

The man exhaled his angered breath slowly, his tense shoulders slumping in defeat as his head lifted up to see the monitors. They were still on. Now that he thought about it, it has been four months and the asylum still has electricity running as if nothing happened—as if time stopped in this god-forsaken place. Waylon glanced over one screen to another, seeing nothing but empty hallways. One of them had static distorting the entire screen. Waylon focused on the monitor, looking over the console controls to find it completely alien to him. Computers were one thing, cameras were entirely another. He looked up at the screen and back down at the console before pressing a button to move the right camera—hopefully. By the time Waylon was about to press another button, the camera cleared up to reveal a long bloody hallway with an assault rifle broken on the floor. He felt sick. Reeling back, Waylon felt his back hit something moving. Turning his head slightly, he saw a disfigured face that was sewn into three sections, dead pearly eyes staring straight into Waylon's own eyes, and no mouth or nose. The man gasped, jumping and backed away from the patient, his hands hitting the desk and grabbing onto the computer chair, rolling it in between them as if it would act as a barrier. The variant twitched, still staring at Waylon before taking a step towards him. Waylon flinched, falling onto the ground and backing up into the depths of the desk. The variant knelt down, head canted to get a better look at him. Luckily it was bound in a straight jacket, but Waylon still found himself extremely terrified of the patient.

Breathe. _BREATHE._  
His inner mantra was suppose to calm him down but as the variant began to crawl towards Waylon, his voice was stuck in his throat, panicked gasps escaping as he shielded himself with his arm and hands. A gunshot rang in the small surveillance room, Waylon hearing the sound of a gun clicking and something dropping to the floor. He opened his eyes and moved his hand to see the variant shot in the back of the head, blood pooling around him.

"Goddammit Park, don't go running off like that," a familiar voice said, a strong hand grabbing onto Waylon and yanking him out of hiding. He thrashed against the contact, his voice finally coming out in crazed screams of letting him go until hands stilled him by the shoulders. "Park!"

It was Rodriguez.

"Fuck man." The soldier sighed. "Let's get the fuck out of here. We ain't finding Upshur in this hellhole."  
Waylon watched the man step outside the room, looking left and right down the hallway for any movements. Then he looked at the dead variant. The sudden feeling of guilt twanged in his heart, brows furrowing the longer he looked. It didn't do anything to attack him—maybe it was curious. Maybe it was trying to help him. After all, he too was a patient of this circle of Dante's Inferno. Waylon also knew that he couldn't leave even if he wanted to. He had to get Miles out of the asylum.

"Where's the others?" He asked warily, stepping around the variant and looking at the soldier. The man didn't bother to turn towards Waylon. "Are they—"

"Johnson got hurt by that...thing. The Walrider. Faraday panicked and ran when she saw it claw the commander." Rodriguez lowered his gun. "That's the first time I've seen her so scared. We've been through so much shit together but that was something completely different. She was so scared."

"I'm sorry," was the first thing that came out of Waylon's mouth; a familiar quote he has been saying for quite some time. He knew it was not directly his fault, but he still felt some form of guilt building within him. Wernicke created the Walrider—that monster—but Waylon helped regulate and program it back when he knew very little of what Murkoff was planning. During his brief time working with them. He asked to go back to the asylum, but these soldiers didn't have a choice. That didn't seem fair to him. In all honesty, Waylon would have preferred going by himself rather than have three soldiers acting as bodyguards and escorts. Not only did he not want anybody to get involved with whatever happened at Mount Massive, but it felt more like his responsibility to set things right—to get Miles Upshur out of the forsaken place. It was his fault for sending him there in the first place.

"Let's head back to the entrance," Rodriguez said, catching Waylon's attention. "If we're lucky, maybe we'll meet up with the others." He didn't say anything, only nodding. The two tread slowly through the hallways and towards the staircase, Rodriguez taking a few steps on the wooden floor before beckoning Waylon to follow. The wood creaked and groaned loudly beneath them, one of the planks cracking, making the two stop.

"We should be fine as long as we're—" Rodriguez turned around to see another variant in front of him, causing the soldier to jump back. The stairs beneath them gave away, crumbling and breaking into pieces as they fell. Waylon saw the variant looking down at them with blank eyes, falling into the abyss. He hit a few pipes and ledges along the way down, breaking his fall—a bit painfully—landing on his back. Waylon let out a sharp gasp, panting as he looked up the shaft of light. It reminded him the time when he fell into the Recreational Building during the incident. Shivering from the memories, Waylon sat up, only to see darkness around him. He felt around his belt for his small flashlight, ripping it off his lanyard and clicking it on to navigate through the dark. There was so many broken planks of wood, he couldn't even recognize the area that he and Rodriguez fallen in.

"Rodriguez?"

"Fuck...over here," a voice called out. Waylon jogged over to see the soldier getting out of the wooden debris, patting himself clean. "Fucking Variants."

"So far they haven't really done anything aside from just...appearing out of nowhere." Waylon smiled wryly. Why was he defending them?

"I thought they all died with everything else in this fucking place," he checked his assault rifle, making sure it wasn't broken from the fall. "You know where we are?"

"Not a clue. If we're all the way down, we're probably near the alternate gate to the laboratory."

"But we still need a key." Waylon nodded. Rodriguez sighed. "And the keys are upstairs. God, I hate this place so much right now." The two looked around to see a haphazard forest of planks, both two-by-fours and broken into sharp lances sticking about. Waylon doesn't recognize the place at all; he usually would only take the elevator with a copy of the key the security guards would give him. Unfortunately, it was revoked from him after sending out the email. Among other things.

"Faraday? Commander? Does anybody read, over?" Rodriguez tried to talk over the walkie-talkie attached to his vest. Nothing but white noise. Then a crackling static.

"Ames...James?"

"Rose?" The soldier jolted out of surprise. "Rose, where are you? What's your position?"

"I...I don't know. All these hallways look the same. God, James, what about the commander? Do you—"

"I haven't heard from him, but calm down. Is there a window nearby? Tell me what you see around you."

"Yeah. Yeah, there's a window, hold on." The sound of her footsteps thumped on the carpet. She must still be on the upper floors of the main building. "There's a...church? I think. I don't know, it's really burnt." Rodriguez looked at Waylon. He nodded. ' _In the back_ ,' he mouthed. "That's all I can see aside from a lot of trees. But are you alright? Did you find Park?"

"I'm fine, don't worry. He's with me. If you can, we'll rendezvous at the church."

"Yeah, okay. I'll make my way there." Faraday paused. "Stay safe."  
Rodriguez clicked the walkie-talkie off and let out a sigh of relief, a small smile on his lips. When he noticed Waylon looking, it disappeared.

"Let's get moving. There's got to be a ladder or something to get us back up the ground floor." Waylon followed, adjusting his backpack.

"You like her." It wasn't a question.

"We...we've been through a lot. Protocols tell us not to get involved with others but...well, shit happens."

"Does the commander know?"

"Probably." Rodriguez scoffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "He's like those dad's that kind of knows everything. Faraday and I have been dating—secretly—for a while. I mean, it doesn't affect our performance in combat, so I don't see the big deal about it. Just keeping it on the down low so we don't get in trouble, ya get me?"

"Yeah, I can understand that." Waylon nodded, stepping over a wooden crate.

"What about you? Young handsome guy like you can't be single." The man nudged Waylon on the arm, voice teasing and light. He figured Rodriguez was the kind of man that liked to talk languidly when not in front of officials. Waylon gave out a small smile.

"Married my college sweetheart back in Berkeley a few years ago and have two kids in Leadville." He said. "Most beautiful and smartest woman I have ever met. Kind of weird because she was one of those girls you'd think were part of those popular cliques and all, but she found me—a nerdy Asian guy going into IT—to be charming."

"But we ended up getting a divorce a month ago," Waylon's gaze dropped to the ground as they continued to traverse through the dark. "She couldn't stand _not_ being able to help me with my...PTSD after the whole incident. Three months of telling me that I was 'okay' and straining a smile whenever I would be shaking in the corner of our bedroom with our children asking 'what's wrong with Daddy,' and, well, it sucked. I think it's better this way. I don't want to be a hindrance in their lives." Waylon sighed. Lisa was trying so hard to support him, telling him that he can fight the plague haunting his sanity, but it always went downhill. Therapy sessions were nearly useless and the medications did very little to aid his mind. He still reacted violently to many things that reminded him of Mount Massive—the static from the TV being left on by accident, electrical saws, and the word "darling." The list went on. But, oh, how Lisa tried so hard to help her husband. Her dear Waylon.

"You may think that way, but she probably didn't." Rodriguez said quietly. Waylon merely let out a somber smile.

"Yeah."

They continued to walk until they saw what appeared to be light leaking through the crevice from a door. Rodriguez reached out for the handle before pulling back and turning towards the shorter man. He swung his rifle over his shoulder and took out his pistol from his back belt, shoving it towards Waylon. The man's eyes widened in confusion and fear.

"In case anything bad happens." Rodriguez said. "You know how to use it, right? Just switch of the safety when you need to and shoot. And maybe bend your arms down a little so the recoil doesn't hurt you."

"I..." Waylon looked at the black pistol. "I can't take this. I'm not killing anyone."

"Listen, Park—"

"No!" Waylon wasn't one to raise his voice, but he did so anyways, the quiet voice rising in frustration and shoving the pistol back to the soldier. "You listen! I know you don't see the Variants as people but they're still living beings. They were human and it wasn't their choice to become what they are. That was Murkoff."

Murkoff created monsters.

Rodriguez shook his head, cursing under his breathe before placing the pistol back in the holster. "Trust me, Park, those things ain't human anymore." The soldier opened the door to reveal a hallway similar to the many others throughout the asylum, only with all the doors broken down, bolted hinges distorted, and dried blood covering nearly everything around them. Rodriguez took a few steps ahead before Waylon was already making his way towards a mutilated body. He turned it around without hesitation and saw the faded numbers printed on the left side of the jumpsuits. Whatever happened down here was not murder. It was genocide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for the kudos and reading the fic! Much appreciated! ;u; <3


	4. IV

Miles found himself in his apartment, sitting at his desk with the laptop closed, the computer monitor off, and the only light source he had was his lamp that flickered every now and then. Raising a brow, he tapped the shade of the lamp, hearing it shudder on the wooden desk. It all seemed too surreal. He must be dreaming. Scooting away from the desk, Miles headed for the door, hand on the knob until he noticed something. It wasn't his hand. Or rather, part of it wasn't. Where his fingers were missing, black smoke conglomerated, the wisps licking about on the doorknob's surface. Tearing his hand away from the door, Miles looked around the room. That's when he noticed a large silhouette of a figure burnt on the wall in black soot. But it was alive. It burst from the wall, strong clawed hands reaching out for him.

< _no escape._ >

Miles woke with a gasp, finding himself still slouched against the wall and a dull pain coming from his sides and ribs. He looked around the laboratory, finding it empty, save for the humming sounds of the machinery around him and his own breathing. Just a dream. Walking towards the stairs, Miles looked at his hands when they grabbed onto the yellow railings. Still had four fingers on both hands. Part of him felt relieved that he was back in reality, another part of him was yelling out of frustration. The man headed out of the lab, staring blankly at the bloodstains in the hallway that have long been dried up. A wheelchair was toppled over, surrounded by a cake of blood and broken firearms. He stopped next to the wheelchair, looking at it. Wernicke. The man who started all of this. They called him a genius, some called him a mad scientist. The German doctor created the Walrider Project with associations with Murkoff, saying they wanted to create something that was capable of becoming a sentient being—to be able to make a synthetic become organic. Making the impossible possible. Or at least that what Miles can recall from reading the files in blue folders lying around the area, as well as accessing the database with ease and uncovering all sorts of information to his heart's content thanks to the Walrider. He decided to read up more on the swarm as he headed to his makeshift kitchen in one of the lab rooms. The cafeteria still needed to be cleaned up.

Despite being one with the swarm, Miles is still human—or at least he believes he is. Nothing about him really changed; his heart was still beating, his mind was a bit wracked up from everything that has happened in the asylum, and he has become the host of a nano-technological synthetic being. But other than that, he still felt like himself. Grabbing a hot plate and plugging it into the wall, he started rummaging through the pillow case that acted as a container for canned food that he managed to scavenge in the asylum kitchen. He had to eat; after all, he is still human. Taking out a can of chili, Miles sighed. This is the fourth can of chili this week.

"Well, too much protein isn't a bad thing, right?" He mused to himself, kicking the poor sack aside back into the corner next to the liquid nitrogen cylinders and headed back towards the hot plate. Miles stared at it. "God...this is so ghetto." He opened up the cupboard above him to take out a large beaker, making sure to clean it before setting it aside. Now the tedious part. Kneeling down to the concrete, Miles began rubbing the top of the can against the pavement, sanding the edges away. Sometimes looking up random videos on YouTube during slow days at work had its benefits. Checking to see if the edges were gone and adjacent to the lid, Miles squeezed the can, trying to pop the top off. He nearly yelped as it flew over his head and clattered onto the floor, bits of sauce sprinkled here and there. Quickly pouring the chili into the beaker and placing it on the hot plate, Miles reached for the top.

"Get out of here." The scientist said, waving Miles away, blood spilling from his abdomen, a hand trying to cover the wound. "You may not be able to outrun it, but at least try to get to the surface. The tactical squad should—oh no..." His eyes widened with fear. The sound of a ghastly wail coming from behind made Miles flinch, cutting himself on the edge of the top of the can, bringing him back to reality. What was that? A vision of the past?

_Plip plip._

Miles saw blood dripping down onto the white floor, blooming red and bright. He caught his reflection on one of the glass cabinets to see his nose bleeding.

"Fuck," Miles pinched the bridge of his nose, getting up with a slight vertigo before leaning over the sink, letting the blood flow down the drain. Closing his eyes, he sighed. Why did he have that vision? Was it somebody who died in this lab? Was it during the incident—or was it all part of Murkoff's plan to shut people up? More and more questions arose in Miles' mind, all left unanswered, leaving the man aggravated. Was this the Walrider's doing?

The sound of something clinking against glass caught Miles' attention, causing him to turn his he's to see the Walrider calmly taking the beaker off the hot plate. It looked towards him.

< _fire._ >

A waft of burnt odor made Miles realize that his breakfast—lunch—dinner—was nearly ruined due to his clumsiness. He let out a groan, feeling the blood thin out from his nose, wiping the rest with his dress shirt sleeve. A red streak stained the white fabric, contrasting it heavily, as if it was shouting at the man.

'Whatever. I'll just wash it out or something.' Miles thought to himself, turning on the tap. When was the last time he actually cleaned up though? Sure, there were showers in the other parts of the building, as well as the showers in the lab in case scientists were exposed to chemicals that needed to be washed out, but nothing could wash away all that has happened. The Walrider merely watched. Something about the way the swarm was watching him irked Miles. He felt as if he was being judged by the nano cloud.

"Where were you? Just threw me around like a ragdoll then got bored?" He said in a snide manner, wiping any leftover blood. The Walrider tilted its head.

< _ragdoll?_ >

Miles rolled his eyes. "Never mind." The Walrider didn't understand its host, the way he kept using strange jargons and dismissing everything, leaving holes to be filled in with assumptions. It was aggravating to the swarm. It never had any trouble understanding Billy.

Billy.

Miles blinked as the Walrider dissipated into a cloud, making its way back towards the main machine. He sighed, picking up his burnt chili and sitting down on the counter in the middle of the room.

"Another day at Mount Massive—cheers to me," he held up his beaker, toasting to the empty room and the silence around him. Miles finished up his pitiful excuse of a meal before heading back towards the console room—the Walrider circling around Billy's orb again—pressing one of the buttons to open up a sealed door in the hallway. Wernicke's office. It held countless of information concerning Project Walrider and everything monitored in Mount Massive, from emails to test results. The man walked in, stepping over the rotting soldiers' body and heading towards the large wooden desk. He made a note to discard the bodies somehow—maybe pile them up in the delivery bay and burn them. Miles never bothered with Wernicke's console, too afraid of what it might do. One of the buttons he knows is to open a pathway to the lab. The others were a mystery that Miles was not willing to find out. Standing near the desk, Miles looked at the bookshelves, then at the painting, then at the door. It was somewhat calming, perhaps because it reminded Miles of his own room, minus the protective glass and biohazard symbol on the wall.

And the Walrider refused to come near the room. For what reasons, Miles doesn't know. But he's grateful. Sitting in a computer chair he dragged from the console room, Miles opened up a journal—his journal. The man tried to keep himself occupied by writing endlessly about what has happened before and after everything, often times repeating himself and asking numerous of questions he will never get an answer to. Picking up the pen, Miles looked at the nub of his index finger on his right hand. He still blames Trager for his fingers. Partially, he also blames the Whistleblower for sending him to Mount Massive as well. Incoherent words were scrawled across the yellowed journal pages as Miles' mind started to wander off. Now that he thinks about it, even though the Whistleblower sent him the information, he was the one that actually decided to go to the asylum.

_Thunk._

Miles looked up at the open doorway to see the Walrider standing—floating—about, staring at him. It was dragging a carcass with one hand along the floor, several appendages in the other. What on earth was it doing?

< _fire._ >

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Miles chapters will be a tad bit shorter than usual, but I promise they'll grow as the story progresses. :>
> 
> Also I apologize if the floor planning in any of the chapters sounds wonky--most of it is from memory, which isn't...really a good thing since we can't recall details that well. Whoops.
> 
> Again, thank you for reading and for the kudos! <3


	5. V

"This is fucking insane," Rodriguez stared at the carcasses sprawled about on the floor, his eyes showing disgust, the black mask contorting from his words. "We need to get the hell out of here, Park."

"Yeah," Waylon was still looking at the bodies. He can't leave but he also can't tell that to Rodriguez. The man would see him as a psycho for staying in a place like Mount Massive looking for a man that may not even be alive. "Yeah."

But he still had to find him. He brought him here and he needs to get him out. Miles Upshur. Waylon kept a list of both international and local journalists on hand when his suspicion of Murkoff arose. Miles' name was under the freelancer category, or more professionally known as the 'independents.' Why he picked Miles' name out of a dozen others was beyond him. Perhaps it reminded him of the saying 'miles up shore without a paddle.' Waylon grimaced. It fit him perfectly. How ironic. He was in too deep of the chaotic mess created by Murkoff. A mess Waylon was a part of.

"Park! Over here." Rodriguez called from down the hallway. The man walked towards him. "Thinking about something?"

"Kind of. It's nothing to worry about." He replied. "Did you find something?"

"Door up ahead but it looks like it's an airtight lock. Control panel shows it malfunctioning but there should be an override nearby, right?"

"No, not really." Waylon said, looking at the door. It was sealed shut with the panel showing a bright red lock. He's seen countless of these doors throughout the asylum, most of them broken beyond repair. Although electricity was still miraculously being generated in the entire building, the main control panel is located in the laboratory. Despite being one of the best corporations with advance technology, they still can't figure out a lock on a door. Waylon looked up. There was an opening above the door. "We can climb through there."

"Let's just hope it actually leads us out of here." Rodriguez slung the rifle around his back, heaving himself up onto the opening. Waylon followed, grabbing onto the ledge as something held onto his foot. A panicked gasp escaped from him, looking down to see a variant looking up at him. He was missing both his legs. A feeling of dread washed over Waylon as he felt a cold sweat running down the nape of his neck, the glossy eyes staring deep into him. Then it hit him. Some of the blood was still fresh—the variant's wound was recent.

They weren't alone in the asylum.

Was it the Walrider's doing?

Something grabbed Waylon's arm and yanked him up and over the door, causing him to land awkwardly on the other side. Rodriguez didn't say anything, turning around as Waylon watched the legless variant clawing against the glass door.

"Let's go." Rodriguez continued forward without looking back. Waylon took out the tennis ball that fell from the staircase and threw it over the door, watching it fall and bounce near the variant. He looked at it in curiosity before picking it up, giving it a squeeze before bouncing it against the floor. At least it'll be occupied. As he jogged to catch up with Rodriguez, Waylon could have sworn he heard a playful laughter from behind the door.

"So, this church."

"Not sure why it's here," Waylon walked behind him. "Probably part of the old architecture. But from what I've heard, an enclave of patients took refuge there under the guidance of a man named Father Martin."

"The priest guy? I saw the recording you gave to the corporation and that guy looked like a nutjob instead of a priest. Fucking writing some shit on the wall with blood? That ain't right."  
They continued to walk through the labyrinth that was Mount Massive, opening barred doors and looking for signs of an exit. Even directories would have been helpful. The entire place was, and still is, a maze to Waylon, he only took a few routes during his time working with Murkoff, usually spending his time on the main floor and the laboratory, typing away on the computer.

"Holy shit," Rodriguez breathed, catching Waylon's attention. Before them on the ceiling were bright red lights that read out 'exit' beneath an opened door. Both men's pace quickened towards the outside to feel the autumn wind whistling by them, leaves shuddering and dancing along the pathways. "We're actually outside."

Waylon looked around. The sun was starting to set and he could see dark clouds crawling over the Rocky Mountains. A storm is coming.

"There's the church," Rodriguez pointed at the burnt cross in the distance. "Let's go. I don't want to keep Faraday waiting by herself. God knows what shit is left in there." Up and over fences and rerouting from blocked off passages, the two found it eerily quiet as they made their way towards the building. Not a single variant has been encountered during their journey to the church, only the wind and their footsteps crunching against the dying leaves and grass. Waylon took out his flashlight as the darkness crept up around them, looking about. Rodriguez switched his on as well.

"I don't like this. We're probably being followed." Rodriguez muttered. Waylon pursed his lips. For all they know, they probably were. The variants were quiet most of the time, stalking their prey, walking quietly with a machete or nailed two-by-four in hand. Waylon tried to hear as hard as he could for the sound of feet slapping against the concrete pathway or movement in the grass. There was nothing. Then there was something. A gunshot in the distance that echoed into the night. Rodriguez bursted into a sprint down the pathway, leaving Waylon behind as the man began to run as well. He didn't want to be left behind but the soldier was running so fast towards the church, he didn't bother to turn around to see if the man was following him. Waylon panted for breath before lurching over, hands on knees. Fuck.

"Rose?" Rodriguez called out as he entered the destroyed chapel, overwhelmed by the smell of burnt wood and flesh all around him. He turned sharply towards the shadows as sound of wood cracking caught his attention.

"James?" Rodriguez lowered his gun and let out a sigh of relief to see Faraday walking slowly out of hiding behind a pillar. She was still shaking and had her rifle close to her. There was blood caked on her bullet-proof vest.

"Hey—"

"You fucking asshole!" She pushed him hard, making the soldier nearly toppling over. "Whatever happened to not splitting up? You ran away from me when that...thing attacked us!"

"What the fuck was I suppose to do? Bullets weren't doing jack shit and—"

"We could have fucking ran the same way you dumbfuck!"

"And risk getting both of us hurt?"

Faraday punched him across the face. "Do you know what the fuck I had to go through just to meet here? Three of those variants were chasing me and that thing appeared again! For fuck's sake!" Faraday crouched down, caressing her head. "I hate this fucking place so much. There's so much fucked up shit here that I don't want to see—"

"Rose."

"Dead bodies just lying around, intestines painting the floors and walls, a fucking body of a burnt man is on the damn cross, James. I had to kill one of the patients. I killed a person." Faraday's voice was becoming tight and quiet. "What the fuck did we sign up for?"

"Rose." Rodriguez knelt down and held her still by the shoulders. "We're going to get out of here, okay? We'll make our way back to the entrance and everything will be alright."

"But what about Park and the commander?"

"Park is right—" Rodriguez turned around to see nothing but the open courtyard before him.

Oh no.

“Oh shit—fuck—I must have left him behind when I heard the gunshot. Fuck—alright,” He turned towards Faraday. “He should be close by. We get Park and we get the hell out of here. Upshur isn't here—this place is still fucked.”

“But the commander is still out there somewhere, James.” Faraday persisted. “We can't just leave our commanding officer in this fucking hell hole.”

“Yeah, and we'll die if we stay any longer. Let's just fucking go and get as far away as we can from this place.” Faraday bit her bottom lip stood up, picking up her rifle. They walked away from the deteriorating building with a large crater revealing the aisle of burnt chairs and makeshift cross in the middle of the room, the body still there, charred and frozen in time. Silence lingered around them, not even the wind was whispering as the fog slowly crept up on them.

“Park?” Rodriguez stopped, having Faraday bump into his back as he shone a flashlight towards a figure standing in the distance. They gave each other a look before cautiously proceeding forward. “Park?” Faraday grabbed a hold onto Rodriguez's arm, brows scrunching together.

“Rodriguez?” Waylon coughed. “Thought you weren't coming back for me.” The two let out a sigh of relief, Rodriguez giving Faraday a light-hearted smile behind his balaclava. Waylon was standing there, clearing his throat and trying to catch his breath.

“See? He's fine.”

“Nothing is fucking fine here,” she hissed, looking around. “Let's just get back indoors—I don't like this fog.”

“It's going to rain soon as well.” Waylon looked up at the dark gray sky. Not even the stars and moon were seen above their heads. Just dark clouds. The man looked over his shoulder, seeing Faraday looking around with shifty eyes, as if expecting something. The bloodstain on her attire was unnerving. He knew it was her job to do what she does as a paramilitary soldier—she trained for this. But nobody has ever trained for what Murkoff created. The horrors that lingered in the fog.


	6. VI

The Walrider watched the three walk about in the courtyard, observing how they moved and reacted to their surroundings. They were slow, careful, and vigilant, but one of them looked familiar to the Walrider. The man with black hair and deep brown eyes that glanced about in the fog. It can feel the man's mind and the ties it had to the Morphogenic Engine. The Walrider deduced that he was the Whistleblower. Hiding in the fog as a swarm, they were unaware of the Walrider's actual presence, continuing their journey towards the main building. They did not seem to be causing any harm to the asylum and its inhabitant—are they? The Walrider let out a hiss as it zipped past the three, heading back into the main building and doing a quick survey of the surroundings. It remembered what Murkoff's paramilitary force tried to do every now and then, raiding the building for any survivors and purging them. But their main objective was clear: kill the Walrider's new host.

" _Kill them all._ " the host snarled, sneering at the monitors overlooking the asylum. The anger it felt emanating from the man was powerful and filled with hatred, the only thing similar it was to Billy. It was all the Walrider ever knew: rage. All it knew was to kill. The first time the Walrider ever killed someone was what Billy called an 'accident.' The man was panicking as water filled the glass orb he was placed in, feeling the chemicals and drugs being pumped into his body, his consciousness slipping away. The last thing he saw with his own eyes was one of the scientist examining him from the outside. A scream ripped from Billy's throat as he wanted the scientist dead for placing him in there, in a chamber that he would die in. The Walrider, still awaiting for a host, saw potential in Billy. It took him as a vessel within his mind. A broken mind, but still lucid enough to be compatible with the swarm. The new host, however...

The Walrider noticed a dead patient in one of the security rooms, blood still fresh and bullet wound precise. It let out a hiss.

"It seems that it is agitated."

The Walrider turned to see the Twins, two naked men standing by the doorway with chipped and rusted machetes in one hand. The bald one raised his chin.

"It does."

"But what of its host?"

"Billy?"

"The Apostle."

"His tongue."

"Mine."

"Yours."

The Walrider let out a screech towards the Twins. It hated them for their cryptic ways, speaking in a strange structure, wanting to harm the host. Calling him the Apostle. The Twins were unfazed, knowing well that the Walrider would not hurt them. Its host told it not to, after all.

" _The only people you're killing is Murkoff._ " The host said. " _The variants—the patients—you leave them alone. Understand?_ "

It didn't understand the new host. Why would it resist from killing the weak? The useless? The Walrider would have easily purged the entire building from the patients gone mad beyond repair.

There can be no beginning without an end. Everything must start anew.

Letting out a low growl, the Walrider faded into the shadows, leaving the Twins to their own devices.

"The guardian of the mountain."

"Who do you prefer?"

"Walker?"

"The Walrider?"

The two looked at each other before speaking in unison.

"Neither."

* * *

Miles stared at the rusting cage of the elevator door as it rattled to life, passing by the concrete walls going up. It was a miracle that it actually still works despite the incredibly burnt pulley system. He hated elevator rides; it made him feel trapped like a helpless animal, waiting to be slaughtered. The sound of large bone saw scissor blades snipping against each other in his mind made Miles shut his eyes and shiver. Fuck Trager.

"Hey there, buddy."

A gasp escaped from Miles, causing him to open his eyes and back up against the elevator wall. He wished he didn't open his eyes. Beyond the grates, on the wall passing by, screeching and moaning from the movement, Miles could have sworn he saw Trager staring right at him, large scissors in hand. He could have sworn that he was walking closer to him. He was.

"You made the right choice, buddy." Miles shook his head as the hallucination became more and more vivid, his breath becoming shaky with fear. Each side of the blade opened up around his neck as Trager stood in front of him, a wicked smile pulling up the corners of his mouth behind the tattered surgeon mask. God, no.

The elevator stopped with an audible ding, Miles blinking as the vision of Trager vanished before his very eyes, a cold sweat dripping down the side of his face. Hastily prying the rusty gate open, Miles looked about at the main lobby. The front entrance door was open. He didn't even realize he was running towards the door until he heard the wails of the Walrider from behind. Tripping over his own footing, Miles tumbled out onto the brick pathway, speckles of broken leaves clinging onto his shirt. He looked up at the dark sky, lying on his back, feeling rain dropping down to the earth.

_< host.>_

Miles turned his head to see the Walrider hovering at the doorway, shoulders heaving as if it was catching its breath. He let out a small scoff. Machines can't breathe. And they can't stand water. He felt alive. Miles wanted to stay outside, feeling the wind blowing down from the mountains and the rain hitting against his skin, but he knew better than to test the Walrider's patience. Getting up, Miles made his way back towards the door, turning around to briefly see something moving in the distance near the gate. A light glinted faintly, vanishing as the doors closed. What was that?

_< twins.>_

Miles turned towards the Walrider. "What about them?" He remembered the Twins; two cryptic variants Miles met before in the Prison where Father Martin held him hostage 'for his own good.' He remembered how they wanted his tongue and liver, how they wanted to kill him. Yet once he witnessed Martin self-immolation, the Twins left Miles alone _—_ for the most part.

_< trouble.>_

"They're in trouble or are they causing trouble?"

The Walrider hesitated, receiving a raised brow and crossed arms from its host. _< unverified.>_

Miles sighed, wringing out the water from his shirt near the window as the rain poured down harder. He looked outside. There was a vehicle parked near the security booth right outside the new gates. The lights were on inside the car. Strange. The Walrider did mention people coming into the building earlier. Perhaps they haven't left yet? In all honesty, Miles is surprised the swarm hasn't brutally ripped them apart in front of him. They were armed, weren't they? Yet Miles hasn't heard a gunshot since the Walrider reported its findings.

"Hey," he spoke to the swarm without breaking eye contact with the truck in the distance. It made a quizzical noise. "What happened to the intruders?"

 _< lost.>_ It paused. _< outside.>_

"Did you hurt them?" He asked.

 _< one.>_ The swarm admitted. Miles rolled his eyes. Of course. _< hurt. status unknown.>_

Holy shit did it actually say more than one word in a sentence? Miles let out a hum, making his way towards the computer lab, noting the missing bodies that have been removed from the premise. Most likely the Walrider's doing. Or VIRALeaks. Now that he thought about it, what were they doing here, especially the Whistleblower? He pressed the space bar on one of the keyboards, watching the screen blink to life. Only two folders were on the desktop: Murkoff and Data. He knew well enough that the Murkoff folder was the 'public' entries of all the experiments and statistics of the facility. The Data folder on the other hand was locked. Mining for information became Miles' pastime, to keep him busy from the mundane silence of the asylum. Ironically, it was keeping him from going insane. He liked looking up information, to educate himself on the unknown—a strategy he learned while writing up articles that needed to be written for a column.

The sound of a door creaking open nearby caught his attention, making the man freeze before feeling the Walrider wrapping itself around the man in a dark cloud, pulling him towards the elevator and throwing him in. The key turned on its own, making it roar to life with a loud clattering sound as the cage door closed. Miles heard footsteps running towards the elevator, faint voices while the Walrider bolted up and through the box, sending Miles back into the mountain. 

Then there were sounds of gunshots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnndd...we're all caught up with the queue!
> 
> The story, unfortunately, does not have any specific days for updates. As I've mentioned before, I type these up on my phone when I can't sleep, soooo...yeah.
> 
> Also special Walrider POV. Yey.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I got caught up with school work--midterms are coming up and all. Plus, I have to get ready for finals and plan on what classes to take next quarter along with finding a job. Fun times.
> 
> Also, I was very hesitant in uploading this chapter--I'm not very happy with it (in length and content), but at the same time I couldn't really scrap the entire thing either. This chapter and the next are very hit-or-miss in my opinion.
> 
> The next chapter will be the end of the asylum 'arc.'
> 
> Again, thank you for reading, as well as the comments and kudos! o/

The rain came down hard on the three as they ran towards the main building of the asylum. Boots and sneaker splashed against the puddle and mud surrounding them, Waylon near tripping over from the slippery surface and a billowing force of wind that passed by until Faraday pulled him up. Rushing into the open door leading to god-knows-where, the three let out a sigh of relief to feel the warmth of the building around them. Their solace was short-lived as a gunshot rang out from what it seemed to be in a nearby room where they were. Rodriguez and Faraday held up their rifles, Waylon following behind as they inched towards the door. Pushing it aside, Rodriguez pointed at the frosted window towards Faraday. She nodded and crouched behind the partition before peeking above. It was hard to see due to the glass's texture, but there was definitely somebody in the main lobby. How did they get back to the lobby all of a sudden? Was the building playing tricks on them?

A screech made the three freeze as another round of shots were fired, accompanied by a scream. Waylon backed away from the door leading to the lobby, accidentally knocking over a computer monitor off a wooden desk. It clattered onto the carpet floor with a loud thud, along with wires attached to the chassis. The two soldiers glared at the man before hearing a loud static coming closer to their position. Scrambling to hide beneath the wooden desks and peering from the shadows, the soldiers gapped at the Walrider's shroud, putting on their night vision goggles. Before them was the nano-cloud taking form of what most would say a human—sort of. It lacked an actual face and genitalia, along with have claws rather than fingers, covering in moving soot that wrapped around a skeleton. Waylon had his camcorder up, feeling the dreaded nostalgia of his experience four months ago in the asylum, recording as much as he could of what Murkoff created.

What they tried to hide.

It hovered next to Faraday and Rodriguez's desk, the former whimpering behind her hand, tears clouding her eyes. Rodriguez held onto Faraday, pulling her into his shoulder as he looked at the Walrider. The swarm was staring right at the two. Faraday's screams were muffled by her own hands and Rodriguez's as the Walrider knelt down, eye to eye with the soldiers hiding in the alcove of the desk. Waylon held his breath, fearing the worse. He has seen the Walrider rip apart people like tissue paper, the variant that tried to calm him down at the beginning of the incident, Jeremy Blaire's body being lifted up into the air and exploding before Waylon's very eyes—

"Friendly down!"

All attention was turned towards the door as an unfamiliar voice called out from the lobby. The Walrider let out a low growl, floating back up and dispersing into microscopic nanites.

"What—"

"Shoot it!"

A staccato of gunshots rang throughout the building, shattering the silence that kept the asylum frozen in time. As if on queue, more noise arose, and it wasn't just the Walrider's static wail.

"Silkysilkysilkysilky!" A crazed voice rose in volume as the three came out of hiding, peering out the door from the shadows to see two soldiers aiming their rifles at a number of variants that encircled them. Some of them were holding weapons.

"I have an itch that needs to be scratched," one muttered, his head twitching, staring at one of them. Smiling a crooked smile. The soldiers pulled the trigger, only to have their bullets swatted away by the Walrider.

The guardian of the mountain.

The guardian of Mount Massive asylum.

"Hey!"

The three turned around, Waylon already having his hands up defensively to see a soldier dressed in a familiar tactical armor. His eyes widened. On the soldier's vest was the patch spelling 'Murkoff.' Rodriguez immediately opened fire without hesitation, eyes locked on the soldier in front of them. He fell to the floor with a thud, blood pooling beneath the body. Why is Murkoff's paramilitary here? Are there more still lurking around? Waylon turned around to see a silhouette being slammed against the frosted glass, making Faraday yelp in surprise. Blood smeared down on the other side, the body toppling over. Another loud thud against the window was a part of a soldier's arm being tossed about carelessly, the Walrider hissing as it picked up the mutilated man like a flimsy doll. More gunshots and men yelling were followed after, along with a string of incoherent commands from an officer in the lobby. His voice turned into gurgles and faded into the chaos of carnage.

They were in the middle of a battleground.

Waylon felt strong arms wrapping around his neck, dragging him back as something cold was pressed against his temple. A gun.

Faraday held up her gun, pointing it at the soldier holding Waylon hostage. The man struggled against the soldier's hold, finding it near impossible to get out as he thrashed about. A gunshot rang in the room, Faraday staring at the two before dropping her rifle. The woman fell to the ground, blood trickling out of the bullet hole from her forehead. Rodriguez screamed, running towards Faraday's body until he was shot several times, falling next to hers. It took Waylon a second to realize the soldier holding him shot them. It took him another second to see the reflection of the man from a nearby computer monitor.

It was Johnson.

 


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might as well upload this while I have the time ahaha. Again, school and all. This chapter will conclude the asylum section of the fic. Point of view alternates between Waylon and Miles. The fic will continue since we haven't gotten to all the good stuff...if I can get away from Dragon Age: Inquisition raughs (see you guys in 20 years).
> 
> Also the tags have been changed to accommodate the new chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading! o/

Miles fell to the floor as he heard the gunshots and voices yelling from above, fading farther away as he descended back down into the lab. What is going on? Are they being attacked again? Was it Murkoff or was it the Whistleblower? Getting up and reaching for the elevator key, the entire elevator jolted to a stop, the lights flickering, causing Miles to be thrown to the side and against the wall. Panicked breaths escaped his lungs, giving the key a jiggle. It wouldn't budge. Oh, god no. He can't be stuck in the elevator, not now. Miles tried to tear the key out, turn it—anything. The elevator gave out a loud groan as Miles felt it sway. His eyes widened. No—no, no, no.  
The sound of rope snapping made his heart drop as the elevator was rushing down to the ground, Miles panicking and holding onto the railing as he shut his eyes. Wind howling from the grates and sparks flying from the contact it was rubbing against the wall was all Miles could hear before an ungodly loud crash occurred. Everything became dark. Smog and ashes from the elevator shaft billowed through the top of the tunnel and into the laboratory hallway, the smell of oil and something burning wafting in the air.  
The Walrider wrapped itself as a shroud around Miles' body, solidifying itself as it looked at its host.

< _host?_ >

No response.

The fall shouldn't have killed him. The Walrider protected him once it saw a Murkoff soldier shooting the elevator pulley system. It rushed through the roof of the elevator and held onto its host, jumping out into the white hallway in order to prevent a fatal drop and being crushed by the roof.

< _wake up._ >

* * *

 

Waylon stared at Johnson's reflection on the computer screen, feeling his stomach tightening and his voice stuck in his throat.  
It was all part of Johnson's—Murkoff's—plan. Even VIRALeaks wasn't safe.  
"They would have gotten in the way, Mr. Park." Johnson said casually as his pistol was pointing at Faraday and Rodriguez's body on the floor. "Now then, what to do with Mr. Waylon Park."

Waylon saw several silhouettes moving about outside the computer lab, one of them walking into the dark room. A patient. Johnson clicked his tongue before pointing his gun at the man, finger on the trigger. Without even thinking, Waylon used all of his strength to headbutt Johnson with the back of his head, causing the soldier to reel back and firing the pistol. The bullet ricocheted onto the wall, causing more patients to investigate the sound.

"Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Park," Johnson growled as he raised his pistol once more. Then there was the sound of a buzz saw. Waylon froze as he heard the blood within him draining from his body. The buzz saw whirred up again repeatedly, even catching Johnson's attention. One of the patients passed by Waylon, heading towards Johnson with a nail bat in hand, chuckling. The soldier began firing as the variant ran towards him with crazed laughter, the bullet wounds not fazing the man. The buzz saw was getting closer, Waylon still not budging. A hand on his shoulder made him jerk with a gasp, heart jumping out as he looked over to see a half-gloved hand.

* * *

The swarm headed to the main control panel, closing Wernicke's office where it left Miles to rest as the lights for the delivery bay and underground parking garage blinked green. They were both open. Letting out a hiss, the Walrider went out to the corridor and into the parking garage to see a small band of soldiers searching the area. Flashlights on their rifles shone through the darkness as they inched forward slowly, one of them holding up a hand to tell the rest to stop. The supposed leader of the group pointed his light towards the Walrider's solid form standing before them.

" _Kill them all._ "

The Walrider rushed towards them, shouts and bullets being phased through the nano-cloud as it picked up one of the soldiers and threw him against the wall, crushing his skull in repeatedly with a sickening sound of bone and brain matter being mixed into one. The headless body dropped to the ground with a low thud. The Walrider grabbed another by the legs and ripped them off before tossing him aside, blood painting the grey concrete with red. The storm of bullets ceased as the soldiers ran the opposite direction towards the opening entrance with the morning light spilling in.

But the Walrider knew that there can be no survivors.

* * *

The gloved hand pulled Waylon towards the door, seeing Johnson struggling against the variant with the nail bat and a figure coming from behind. A rev from the buzz saw nearly made Waylon hysterical and run for his life as the memories came flooding back where Frank Manera—the cannabal—chased him throughout the majority of the asylum, wanting his flesh for his own. But it was the words Waylon heard behind him that made him want to run even more.

"And here I thought I wouldn't see you again, Darling."

Waylon backed away from the man in the haphazardly sewn up vest from different materials, hitting his back against the door frame.

The Groom. Eddie Gluskin.

How was he alive? Waylon saw him die before his very eyes four months ago. He caused his death.

The man chuckled before taking out a blade from his back pocket, the edge glistening under the dim fluorescent light.

Waylon ran. He ran out to the lobby, stopping in his tracks as bodies of patients were strewn out before him, Murkoff soldiers pointing their rifles at him as he held up his hand, backing away slowly. The audible click was soon engulfed by the sound of a loud crash and smoke billowing out of the elevator shaft behind the soldiers, shots ringing out. Waylon dived to the floor, only seeing the bodies on the ground and smoke above him. The soldiers' flashlight were seen through the smoke, beams of light looking about for the man until, one by one, they disappeared with the sickening sound of a blade running through flesh, bodies hitting the ground and voices gurgling blood.

"It's him."

"The Whistleblower."

As the smoke cleared, Waylon saw two familiar figures standing where the soldiers were, machetes in hand and covered in blood. The Twins-the variants he saw in fog-filled basketball court four months ago.

"He looks terrified."

"So he does."

"I want his liver."

"Don't you always?"

"Unfortunately, this one is already taken." A voice said, hand grabbing onto Waylon and pulling him up. He stared, aghast to see the Groom. The hemorrhages in his eyes were nearly gone and the scars on the right side of his face were still apparent but not as livid. Waylon kept an eye on the blade Gluskin was holding.

What is going on?

"Oh, don't worry, Darling. That pesky rat won't be causing any trouble now." Gluskin eyed towards the computer lab. "He made sure of that."

As if on queue, the buzz saw revved up again and a bloodcurdling scream echoed throughout the asylum, Waylon flinching as he heard grunts and seeing Johnson being pulled out of the dark room and into the lobby by his collar.

His hands were gone.

The cannibal let out a small laugh as he chewed on what looked like dark fingers covered in blood, smearing all over his gnarly beard. Frank Manera then looked at Waylon, pointing the buzz saw at him.

"You were mine—MINE!"

"My, you're quite popular, Darling. But as I've said before," Gluskin gave Manera a cold look. "This one is already taken."

The cannibal let out a animalistic growl before they all turned to hear more footsteps coming from the open entrance door. Men in black suits holding up a plethora of assault rifles and hand guns came in, another walking in front of them, completely unarmed. Waylon recognized the man.

Julian.

The patients became restless, staring at the new intruders of their sanctuary but staying their blood-lust—for now.

"Mr. Park, may I ask you to step away for a moment?" Julian asked. The man hesitated, looking over to see the Twins staring blankly at the firearms pointed at them, Eddie's jaw tightening, and Manera licking his bloodied lips. His nightmares were right behind him, breathing and alive while the other side had guns pointing straight at them—and him. Taking a slow cautious step towards Julian and his paramilitary force of agents, Waylon took a breath.

"Don't hurt them." Were the words he wasn't expecting to come out of his mouth. "They didn't become what they are because they wanted to—Murkoff did this to them."

"As we are aware, Mr. Park. You will find us in no ways harming the patients here. However," the man walked towards Johnson's defeated facade with chin up and back straight with authority and power. "I do believe that we need a little chat with Johnson here. I am sorry we've allowed a...snake to slip through our ranks, Mr. Park, but rest assured he will be dealt with."

"Adam Johnson, 42, enlisted in the US Army as spec ops and later retired in 2010. Was offered a job from Murkoff to lead a division in their tactical unit in 2011 and escaped the Mount Massive Asylum Incident four months ago." Julian turned away from the soldier. "Knowing Murkoff, they've assigned Johnson to eradicate what is left in the asylum in order to hide evidence of their wrongdoings, despite Mr. Park's video evidence showing the inhumane violations of human rights on people and creating a technological being for profit. Did I miss anything else, Mr. Johnson?"

The man stayed quiet.

"Although, I'm impressed you've snuck into our organization without alerting anybody until now. So, I have a proposition for you: you can either die here when we burn the entire facility down, or you can come with us."

Johnson spat blood onto Julian's shoes, staining the black leather with a dark liquid. The man was unfazed before looking at Waylon.

"Well then, I believe that answers that. Mr. Park, we can take care of the rest here."

Waylon's brows furrowed together in bewilderment and caution.

"What do you mean?"

"Worry not, Mr. Park, all of the remaining patients will be transferred to our psychological clinic and regime that you were a part of three months before. We will do our best to treat them to our abilities. And as I've stated before, we will burn the facility down to ensure that Murkoff will no longer cause any harm towards the patients and what else is left."

"Is that even legal?"

"Was what Murkoff did legal?"

He had a point. Waylon turned towards the variants—the patients—as they were still eyeing them warily. Now that he thought about it, why haven't they attacked him? Another thought flashed into his head.

Where was Miles Upshur?

* * *

The Walrider heaved its shoulders up and down, crushing the skull of a soldier with its bare hand, blood and flesh exploding between its fingers from its grip. A wheezing breath came from the shadows of the garage, making the swarm snap its head towards the direction of the sound, ready to eradicate what threat was left. The Walrider's shoulders relaxed as Miles hobbled towards him, still hidden within the shadows, his own stretching to the nano-cloud as light shone from the white hallway behind the man. Miles looked at the bloodstained concrete around him, lungs and intestines amassing into clumps sprinkled everywhere on the floor; arms and legs were found scattered about, some peeking beneath abandoned armored jeeps and others lying about in a visceral pool of gore. His eyes were filled with horror and confusion, looking over the Walrider towards the garage entrance to see two figures standing in the light of dawn. The swarm turned, emitting a growl before Miles walked towards it and placed a hand on its shoulder.

"It's okay." He reassured the Walrider as it looked warily at the men standing in the distance. Dissipating, the nanites retreated into Miles' body. The sound of static filled his mind, but ever so quietly, like a hum of white noise instead of a chaotic mess. Miles looked up at the figures once more, one of them walking towards him. A man, around Miles' age, stood in front of him, a small smile gracing his lips. The camcorder in the man's hands made Miles know exactly who he was.

"Found you, Miles." 


End file.
